


Compos Mentis

by PNGuin



Series: Dux Bellorum One-Shots [8]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Emotionally Hurt Magnus Bane, Hinduism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Magnus Bane Deserves Nice Things, Magnus Bane is Hindu, Magnus Bane-centric, Magnus is struggling, Supportive Alec Lightwood, and he turns to religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-07 02:13:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17951708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PNGuin/pseuds/PNGuin
Summary: He draws in a deep, measured breath and when he lets it back out, he sinks into it and lets go of his white-knuckled grip on the material world.Or, Magnus returns to his roots, and to the religion that his mother once taught him.





	Compos Mentis

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of a cobbled together introspection/character study on Magnus and his practicing of Hinduism. Takes place after episode 2.12 and that whole Azazel Incident.
> 
> I was raised Catholic and am now atheist/agnostic (depending on the day), so all of my understanding of Hinduism comes secondhand from my theology minor and a few hours of research online. If anything is misrepresented or misunderstood, please let me know and I will do what I can to fix it.
> 
> Title is Latin and means "having full control of one's mind."

The sun isn’t up yet and usually Magnus would be sleeping until dawn brightened the horizon and drifted in past his curtains. But, well, sleep has been decidedly elusive for him the past few weeks. So, here he is, out on his balcony just before sunrise. He feels cold, chilled by the lack of sunlight, even though the June heat is stifling. It’s still another fifteen or so minutes until the sun will peek up and grace New York City with its presence, and Magnus still needs to gather everything.

He lays the mat out meticulously, careful to smooth any creases in the finely woven fabric. It’s old – not as old as him, but still an artifact of times past – and, once upon a time, it had been handwoven by a family from a rural village in the Rembang Regency of Central Java. He can’t remember the face of the kind grandmother who sold it to him, but he remembers kneeling with the family in their tiny little hut and sipping at ginger tea. He remembers what it felt like to return to his mother’s homeland and be welcomed. It is a good memory, even if it is foggy from age, and Magnus feels so short on good memories these days. Some days, it’s almost as if he’s drowning in all of the bad ones.

The mat itself is small in size, large enough for him to sit cross-legged on it with a bit of extra space around him. There’s a beautiful geometric pattern of yellows and browns and blacks, all of which had been stained by ground-up natural dyes. The colors have survived nearly two hundred years due only to his own fervent preservation charms; it would feel like an insult to let such artistry wither away, even if the artists who made it already have. His mother’s people would call it _batik_ , a traditional form of woven and dyed cloth. Old enough that it had been an ancestral art even when he had been a boy.

He remembers walking through the markets at his mother’s side while he clutched at her _kebaya_ , remembers her chatting with the merchants and running her hands longingly over the fabric. _Your grandmother and great-grandmother used to make cloths like these, sayang,_ she used to say. _Why don’t they now?_ he used to ask. She would always press her lips together and turn away. He never got an answer; when he got older, he didn’t need one anymore.

Red had never been a popular color for _batik_ rugs. Not many natural ingredients in Java gave rise to red dye. That hadn’t stopped the red from spreading on mama’s nightgown, from crusting over that _kris_ dagger, from dripping onto his hands and staining them forever.

Magnus ruthlessly pushes the memory down, deep into his heart and his mind. He’s out here to clear the thoughts, not dwell upon them.

He eases himself onto the floor, the roughness and solidity of the concrete jarring even through the thick fabric of his rug, and he pulls his legs in so that they cross. He brings each bare foot up to rest on the opposite thigh, soles pointing towards the inky sky, heels close to his abdomen. His knees are flush against the rug, his torso centered above his hips, his spine erect without strain. Head tipped down ever so slightly to relax the neck, tongue resting on the roof of his mouth, shoulders pushed backwards to lift the ribcage up, eyes closed. He can almost imagine the phantom hands that used to correct his posture, can almost hear a sweet voice from centuries ago reminding him to stay still.

 _Padmasana_. Lotus position. An _asana_ , a body posture intended to focus his mind and body for meditation. Ancient, ancestral, the customs of a people he has long since stopped considering himself a part of. And yet his body sinks into it, even if his heart holds back.

With a snap of his fingers, he lights an incense stick and carefully rests it in the holder laid out before him. Just behind the holder is a single statuette, one lone _murti_ which he has allowed himself to hold onto. It sits poised in the lotus position, mirroring Magnus – or, perhaps, Magnus is the reflection here, the shallow copy of a divinity he could never hope to reach. There is a fine patina which has colored the brass figure, painting it a soft patchy green that is a disgrace to the deity. Magnus should get a new _murti_ , but he cannot find it within him to replace it. His mother would cluck her tongue and chide him; _the gods deserve only our best_ , she would say. Magnus does not have any _best_ to offer.

He closes his eyes and tightens his grip on the _japamala_ in his right hand. Sandalwood, 109 smooth, worn away beads. His mother used to own one that looked just like it; he doesn’t know what happened to it all those centuries ago. He can’t remember if it had been wrapped around her wrist when she had taken that _kris_ , if it had been stained red by her own blood. Now, all he has is a cheap mockery of her prized prayer beads, and the only possession he has of hers is a morbid reminder of her death.

It’s been too long since he last offered any sort of prayer or meditation to the gods. Maybe a couple hundred years, now. Back in those decades he had spent with his father, he had forsaken any and all religious leanings. He had forgotten the ancient prayers, the mantras, the devotions that his mother had once instilled in him, had traded it for the screaming of tortured supplicants and the agonized crying of captives. Only once he had broken free of his father’s cruel hold, once he had banished the foul monster from Earth for all eternity, only _then_ had Magnus found it within himself to return to his motherland, to relearn all that he had lost along the way.

And then, only a few hundred years after, Camille had hated even the briefest allusion to religion or spirituality, and Magnus had been heartsick enough to blindly agree with her, even as it had stripped away an essence of his identity. He regrets how easily he let go of it, how stupid he was for choosing his obsessive and desperate love over that last strand that had connected him to his mother and her people.

She had simply torn it all away from him. Just as his father had. And then Magnus had spent over a century living in the West, a world dominated by Christian iconography, a world that loathed and detested – either openly or subtly – all that his mother and her people believed.

So, admittedly, Magnus has been remiss in his devotion. He has gone over two hundred years without a single dedicated thought to the gods and he feels almost foolish for turning to them _now_. It is an action spurred on by selfish reasons, not any adherence to faith. He has nothing else to fall back on. Not when every night is plagued with memories long since repressed, not when his soul has been trapped in the body of stranger, not when he still feels the dislocation of his very being even now that everything has ended. He is not his own, and there is no solution or platitude that any amount of magic or love can offer, not even when he has both in abundance.

 _Our suffering comes from our karma, pangeran,_ mama would say. Magnus thinks of finding that _kris_ protruding from his mother’s stomach, of the smell of charred flesh and the blackened skin of his step-father, of the decades-worth of torture and agony he inflicted upon innocents simply to earn a smile from his father. His karma had been doomed from the start, when his father had raped a young, beautiful Javanese woman and forced her to bear a monster.

He has tried – _gods above_ , has he tried – to pay for the damage he has caused, to turn his back on the cruelty of his father’s legacy and instead reach for the quiet compassion of his mother. Magnus may not have been devout the past two hundred years, but he has nevertheless yearned for some deeper meaning to his life. _Puruṣārtha_ , he can hear his mother whisper. The ultimate goal of all human life, composed of four fundamental cornerstones. _Dharma_ , righteousness and morality. _Artha_ , prosperity. _Kama_ , pleasure and love. _Moksha_ , liberation.

Oh, how Magnus has tried to achieve such lofty goals. Tried to live morally, tried to live prosperously, tried to live lovingly, tried to gain liberation from the cycle of suffering. Perhaps, in all his attempts, all his desperation, he has gone _too far_. So righteous, that he has left others behind, that he has abandoned them to drown in their own sins while he climbs ever higher. So prosperous, from centuries of over-charging, that he doesn’t know what to do with all his wealth, that it merely collects dust in his dragon-like hoards. So pleasurable, that he has wasted away centuries of his life doing nothing more than fucking and drinking.

Too much. He’s always too much. Always trying to compensate for everything that has been taken from him.

And yet. Never enough. Never enough to gain _moksha_ , to attain freedom from the cycle of life and death. How can he, when his life is not defined by _death_ as the lives of mortals are? There is no cycle for Magnus, no death and rebirth and repeat that he must escape. The only cycle that he needs liberation from is this constant cycle of _agony_. How many times must he hurt? How much must he give? How long before he is forgiven?

 _Can_ he be forgiven? Can his karma ever be cleansed? Do the sins of his father completely eradicate all hope for him, does his connection to Hell not prevent any redemption for him? And what of his mother? Suicide is unforgivable; her soul has been locked out of the cycle of rebirth by her own actions. Her soul now wanders, trapped on Earth for all eternity, hopeless to ever attain _moksha_. Is that not Magnus’ fault, that she will forever suffer? How can he ever forgive himself such a sin, how can his karma ever recover, how can his mother’s soul ever find _peace_?

He feels the trickle of tears that have spilled past his eyelids and he swallows back the encroaching sobs that attempt to claw up his throat. His mind is a jumbled mess of bloodied nightgowns and scorched flesh and screams of the damned. When his eyes fly open, the sun has already risen above the horizon and it beats down upon him relentlessly. He feels the burn and wants to relish in it, wants to accept it. But everything hurts and nothing makes sense and Magnus couldn’t meditate if his life depended on it. His life doesn’t, but maybe his soul does. He wonders if that even matters to him anymore.

He snuffs out the incense, climbs to his feet, and banishes his makeshift little shrine back to the dark corner he retrieved it from. _Do you not offer thanks to the gods?_ his mother would chide, tutting at him with enough disappointment that he would rush back to their shrine and redo his prayers. Back when she loved him, back when he wasn’t a monster to her, back when she was still _alive_ and her nightgown wasn’t stained with red.

 _I have nothing to thank them for_ , he would tell her now.

* * *

And yet. He returns, several days later, at three in the morning. The night sky is still inky and dark, a foreboding blanket that settles over him, suffocating all of the light and life out. He’s drowning, like his step-father is still holding his head under the water. All he can see is the infinitely dark depths of the canal. All he can smell is the charring of flesh and the fires of Edom. All he can feel is the slick of his mother’s blood as it drips from her stomach. He wakes to an empty bed, hurries to the bathroom to vomit, and inches out to the balcony on shaky legs.

He moves methodically, ritualistically, in a set pattern that he hasn’t performed in achingly lonely decades. A pattern passed down to him from his mother, from her mother, and the mother before that. A lineage that is not rooted in fire and brimstone and ichor, but in the roots of sandalwood trees and the steam of ginger tea.

His _batik_ is laid out, exceedingly carefully, so that not a single wrinkle exists. His incense is lit and nestled in its holder. His _murti_ sits opposite him, a taunting smile turned in his direction. His _japamala_ rests in his hand, ready for him to run his fingers over each individual bead to count his repetitions.

Magnus sits down, _padmasana_ , a mirror to his deity’s statue that watches him in all his failings, that watches over him in all his hurts. He closes his eyes, breathes in his incense, and breathes out all of the impurities that plague him, that soil his _karma_. He breathes in the scent of sandalwood, and the lingering trace of leather and sweat from when Alexander last hugged him, and the particular smoke and grime of this city that he has adopted as his own. And he breathes out all of the hatred for _Azazel_ , all of the anger at the Clave and the Inquisitor and even his Alexander, all of the last little traces of _Valentine_ that cling to the husk of his body.

Each breath is measured, precise, timed. Not simply a necessity for life, but rather a _way_ of life. Breath is the foundation, the force, the essence behind all life, and it is this groundwork which Magnus returns to. The first of many lessons, the first step in reclaiming what has been taken from him, whether that be his mother’s religion or his body or his own security of mind.

He breathes. And he drifts. And he lets go.

Once the taste of vomit has left his mouth and the memory of his mother’s ashen face has fled his mind, he focuses his attention inward, upon his body and his mind and his soul. All three must be in harmony for _him_ to exist in harmony. He draws in a large breath, until he can feel his lungs resting against his ribs, and he holds it. He squeezes his ribs tighter to his lungs and contracts his perineal muscles, pulling together and collecting all of the impurities that exist within the vessel of his body.

Exhale, release muscles, steady breaths for several counts, repeat. Until all of the pollutants within him have been dragged into the fire that burns in his chest, until everything has been purified with flame. Until he breathes and there is no longer pain and agony and hatred leaking out, until his shoulders are lightened from his burden, until he exists fully himself inside the familiar containment of his own body.

Each inhale brings with it a whisper that drifts in the wind, a gentle voice that curls against his ear and settles around his heart like a balm. _Prānāyāma,_ it reminds him, _what does that mean, sayang?_ Breath. Life. Control. From _prana_ , that vital essence which permeates reality at every level; every single being, every single object, every single atom and proton and neutron and electron. All of life is dictated by free will, by the _control_ which people exert upon their _prana_. Control the breath, control your actions, control your _karma_.

It gets easier, the further he sinks into it, the more he takes back the reigns of his own existence. He _is_ his own. Not Valentine’s, not Azazel’s, not the Clave’s. His soul is his own to shield, his own to share. His _prana_ is his to dictate, his _karma_ is his to influence, his fate is his to decide. Cycle or no, _moksha_ or not. It is Magnus’ to determine.

He opens his eyes to see the sun shining on him. He lets himself bask in its warmth, lets it permeate his skin and bleed down into the very bones of his being. His incense has burned away, mere whiffs of smoke lingering around it like a cloud, and his _murti_ grins over at him. When he looks at it now, one hundred and eight measured breaths later, he sees the benevolence in the patina-painted face. Knowing eyes, a gentle grin, peace within. It reminds him of his mother. _Before_.

He packs everything back away with due diligence, and as he continues about his day, he finds that each breath does not snuff out the vital fire burning within him, but rather fans it, feeds it, strengthens it. It is this fire which burns away the impurities, which fuels him in his deeds, which grants him serenity in his life.

When he breathes now, it is with a reminder of the life that his mother gave him, of the customs that her people passed down to him, of the _good_ that he can do in the world.

* * *

He continues on with a newly realized adherence to his mother’s rituals. Not with the same unwavering devotion as she once had, nor does he do so every single day. But when he can carve out the time, when he can summon forth the motivation, when he has the mental fortitude necessary to leave his nightmares behind him, he goes out onto the balcony and he sits on his _batik_ mat and he controls his breathing.

It helps, even if it does not solve everything. It restores some of his own control over the body that had been worn by someone else, reminds him of the power he still retains over his own free will. The nightmares still linger, the horrific memories from centuries past still plague him, the dark anger that he feels for the world still rises like a tide. But he can temper it, can mold it, can change it. He is his own, and his emotions are his own. His will is his own.

This time, it is a daydream which catches him by surprise. One minute, he is sitting in his apothecary, working on a potion for a long-standing client, and the next he is back in Batavia, the red stain of his mother blood, the burning of flesh, the suffocating rush of water down his throat and up his nose. He chokes on nothingness and stumbles in his haste to get up from his desk and walk away. Something shatters behind him as he leaves the apothecary, and he can only hope that it isn’t dangerous.

He’s torn between two worlds. One of reality, his apartment, Alexander’s hoodie tossed over his favorite armchair, framed pictures of them scattered throughout the loft, trinkets from all the places they have visited. The other, the Dutch East Indies from the 17th century, servants who glared at him as he passed, the distant cracking of a whip as his step-father beat the slaves, the whispers of the merchants as he passed their stalls. He smells blood and fire and agony and he’s being pushed against the wall and strapped into a chair by Alec – by _his Alexander_ – and, and, and-

By some miracle, some grace of the gods, he manages to summon his things. With shaking hands and blurring vision, he lays his _batik_ out, lights his incense, tightens his grip around his _japamala_ , settles his quivering limbs into some haphazard rendition of _padmasana_. He breathes and counts, in and out, holding it and tightening his core and then releasing all of the built-up tension. But it does little to soothe his rabbiting heart, does little to beat back the agony encroaching back upon his soul.

 _Shiva_ , his heart calls out, his eyes opening and meeting the benevolent grace of his _murti_. Lord Shiva, god of destruction and the dance, supreme destroyer of evil. His heart cries out for the deity he so long ago forsook, his body threatens to curl in on the shame that washes over him for his own sacrilege. For the first time in centuries, Magnus bows his head and prays.

 _Om Namah Shivaya_. Once, then again, then another. On and on. One hundred and eight times. Repeat. _Om_ , the primordial sound, the essence of ultimate reality, the consciousness of the soul. _Om Namah Shivaya_. O salutations to the auspicious one. O Lord Shiva, Great Destruction, Magnus Bane calls for You. Tear out the taint, burn away the impurities, destroy the agonies of the world so that it may be rebuilt. Carve out and cauterize those vestiges of _Valentine_ , of _Azazel_ , of _Asmodeus_ that live within him, the plagues that grow like fungus deep within his heart. Destroy, O Lord Shiva, so that You can create, so that You can restore that which was broken.

Magnus isn’t sure where this desperation, this fervent devotion with which he prays comes from. He has never felt it, not in all his many years. Not when he still sat upon his mother’s lap, not when he stood at his father’s side, not when he walked through loneliness and isolation for centuries. He long ago lost all faith in _divinity_ ; he has seen too many demons, too many wars, too much evil to believe in such existence.

But now. Now, he has lived in the skin of a monster, has had his own body worn as a costume for a mad man, has opened his mind back up to the dark memories of his childhood. Now, he reaches out his soul, his heart, his essence. A vulnerability, a risk. He has kept himself locked away for so long that the sudden exposure burns. But he opens himself up, he takes that danger and he lets it bolster him.

There is no response, but Magnus knows better than to expect one. The gods, if they do in fact exist, work beyond even the greatest of a warlock’s understanding. If he wants an answer, he must look for it in the changing of the wind, listen for it in the beating of his heart, seek it out in his own devout dedication to righteousness and prosperity and love.

 _Om Namah Shivaya_ , his soul cries out, and the world answers.

When he opens his eyes, he’s thrown at first. His incense has faded from the air, the sun has faded from the sky, and his terror has faded from his heart. It’s late – how late, Magnus doesn’t know – and the night is brightened only by the city’s lights, bold intrusions of humanity’s presence against the darkness of the world. He looks out at the New York skyline and remembers what it looked like when he first traveled to America, he remembers how it’s changed in all the years he has known it. Like watching a dear friend grow up, right alongside him.

A quiet scuffle just beside him breaks him out of his reverie, and he turns his head only to find his Alexander seated near him, just past the boundary of his _batik_ rug. His darling shadowhunter is freshly showered, hair still damp against his forehead, and he’s clad only in a pair of sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a worn t-shirt that leaves little to the imagination. He has one foot resting on his opposite thigh in a half-lotus position, and he’s struggling to get the other leg suitably bent. He’s barefoot and cross-legged, his back curved as he attempts to perfectly arrange himself. The sight of him _now_ is so contradictory to the rigid posture and stoic tension Magnus typically sees in him that it inspires a well of affection to bubble up in his chest.

He takes the moment to just _watch_ , to drink in all of the soft edges of this gorgeous man, to bask in the side of Alexander that only Magnus is afforded. Here, Alec is not a Clave soldier, not the Head of the New York Institute, not a prime example of shadowhunter rigidity, not a sharp line that cuts through the world like an arrow. Here, his Alexander is yielding and gentle, soft and compassionate, firm in his love but pliant in his offering of it.

The poor nephilim wobbles in place, clearly lacking some of the flexibility necessary to sustain the lotus position, and the incongruent image of his brave soldier attempting to mirror Magnus’ own posture is enough to draw a chuckle from his lips.

Alec’s head snaps up, a deep blush already creeping up over his face and down his neck. It’s a delectable sight, and one which does nothing but invoke a deeply-rooted ache to expand in his heart. The sensation is sweet enough that Magnus fears getting cavities or diabetes from it.

“Having fun, darling?” he breaks the embarrassed silence with an adoring smile.

“Um,” his love mumbles out, eyes flicking away as if that can hide him from Magnus’ gaze. He looks down at his lap and the haphazard attempt he’s made for the lotus position. When he finally meets Magnus’ eyes, it’s with a bashful crooked little grin that makes the warlock’s heart stumble in his chest. “I think I might be stuck,” his Alexander admits.

Magnus couldn’t help his laughter even if he tried, and he doesn’t dare try. He tosses his head back and lets his breath huff out of him in a chuckle that expels the impurities from his life. When he breathes back in, it’s with the scent of his darling angel pervading the air around him.

“I didn’t- I didn’t disturb your meditation, did I?” Alec asks, once Magnus has calmed back down. “I’m sorry if I did. I tried to be quiet.”

“Not at all, my love,” he assures, with what he can only assume is a sappy grin that curls at his lips. “In fact, I was just finishing up.” Magnus goes to wave his hand and tidy everything back up, when his dear shadowhunter softly interrupts him.

“I didn’t know that you were devout,” the younger man mentions. “Is that a Hindu god?” he wonders curiously, nodding to the little _murti_ of Shiva.

Not for the first time, Magnus marvels at all the ways Alec Lightwood manages to surprise him. For all that the young man has spent his life sheltered by the Clave, he retains an inherent curiosity that is both invigorating and humbling to Magnus. His hazel eyes are shining, inquisitive and ever-eager for an answer, but never demanding, never presuming.

“I’m not always devout,” Magnus concedes. “Honestly, it depends on the decade. But, yes, Hindu gods. The gods that my mother worshipped.”

A gentle look passes over Alec’s face at the admission, and the young man scoots impossibly closer to Magnus. “Will you tell me about them?” he asks, as if he wants to know every single facet of Magnus’ existence, as if wanting such things is the easiest decision in the world.

As it so often happens with his Alexander, Magnus is nodding before he even has to think of the answer. He turns his body to fully face the shadowhunter and promptly pats the empty space on the _batik_ in front of him. It takes some maneuvering – more on Alec’s behalf than Magnus’ – but eventually they’re both settled cross-legged, their knees pressed against each other and their hands clasped loosely in Magnus’ lap.

He starts at the beginning, with the earliest tales he can recall his mother reciting for him, words that he has not repeated in hundreds of years suddenly spilling forth as easily as breathing. They must be out on that balcony for hours, and yet through all of Magnus’ reminiscing and rambling, Alec stays absolutely enraptured. He’s all shining eyes and indulgent smiles and inquisitive little tilts of his head, and it makes Magnus wonder.

The gods work in mysterious ways, ways far beyond his own comprehension. He wonders, in times such as these, if the gods heard his prayers even before he said them, if they sent their answer before Magnus thought to ask for it. His past and all the traumas it has inflicted upon him is gone, burned away and destroyed. And here, sitting resolutely in front of him with his own form of devotion, is Magnus’ _future_. Is his life and his world reborn, recreated, redefined.

He thinks that his mother would be proud.

**Author's Note:**

> Although I am not religious, I understand how significant an impact it can have on someone, particularly after a traumatic event and when it holds such cultural importance to someone. I wanted to explore Magnus' connection to his mother's lineage as opposed to his father's, and this is rapidly blurted out result.
> 
> I headcanon that Magnus' mother was a Javanese woman, and I wanted to incorporate that. However, I struggled to find any Javanese translations/terminology for the principles of Hinduism, so I just stuck with the most easily accessible Sanskrit terms.
> 
> If you have any questions about anything mentioned, please let me know and I'll do my best to answer!
> 
> I sincerely hope you all enjoyed this addition, as I definitely enjoyed researching and typing this out. Please leave me some kudos and a comment!
> 
> ~PNGuin


End file.
